“Mister, do you take us for fools? We saw you with them.”
“Yes, I was with them, but I was setting a trap for them. I thought the sheriff would be on this train and he could arrest them.”
“A likely story.”
“I say let’s hang him.”
“No,” another passenger said. By now, several other passengers had come down from the train. The passenger who called out was a tall, silver-haired, dignified-looking man. “I saw it too, and this man isn’t the one who did the shooting.”
“What difference does it make who did the shooting? He was with them, that’s all that matters as far as I’m concerned.”
“If you men hang him, you are going to have to shoot me as well. And you’ll be doing it in front of every other passenger on this train. Do you want a double murder on your hands?”
“What? No, what are you talking about? Hanging this fella wouldn’t be murder. It would be justice.”
The silver-haired man shook his head. “No, it wouldn’t be justice, it would be lynching. The only way I’m going to let you do that is if you shoot me first. And I think that even you would admit that shooting me would be murder.”
“Maybe the old geezer is right,” one of the original three men said. “I ain’t no murderer.”
“Me neither,” the second of the three said.
The spokesman of the group acquiesced. “All right,” he said. “All right. Let’s get some rope and tie the son of a bitch up. We’ll turn him over to the sheriff as soon as we get to Cloverdale.”
“Thanks, mister,” Bobby Lee said to the man who had stopped the lynching.
“Don’t thank me, mister,” the man replied. “I hope you do hang. The only thing is, I want to see you legally hanged—I don’t want to see these good men get into trouble because of you.”
Bobby Lee offered no resistance when the armed train passengers bound and gagged him like a trussed-up calf, then threw him bodily and painfully onto the floor of the express car. More gently, they lifted the messenger into the car with him. Then one of the armed passengers climbed into the car to keep an eye on their prisoner.
With two short blasts on the engine’s whistle, followed by a series of jolts and jerks, the train got under way again.
“Mister, you picked the wrong train to rob,” his guard said, his glaring eyes gleaming in the glow of the car lamp. “Yes, sir, there was some of us on board who won’t put up with nothin’ like that.”
Bobby Lee wanted to explain to him about his plan to set up a trap for Frank Dodd, to prove to him that he was indeed an employee of the Western Capital Security Agency, but the gag prevented him from talking. There was nothing he could do now but lean back against the side of the car and make himself as comfortable as possible for the remainder of the ride.
Bobby Lee Cabot was twenty-four years old. He was a slender man, with more strength than his appearance suggested. His hair was sun bleached, and his eyes were a cross between gun-metal gray and sky blue. Women found him rather appealing, and men weren’t intimidated by him. That sort of low-key combination worked well for him in his profession as a private detective, because it enabled him to blend easily with his surroundings.
The first part of it had worked well. He had been accepted into Frank Dodd’s gang. Perhaps it had worked too well, because he had not only convinced Dodd and his men that he was one of them, but now the train passengers were equally as convinced.
It was late at night, and there would be another two hours before they reached Cloverdale. As a result, Bobby Lee’s guard fell asleep. Bobby Lee worked himself out of the ropes, and removed the gag. Then, quietly and carefully, he took the gun from the sleeping guard’s hand. Having freed himself, he returned to his position against the side of the car.
It was just after dawn as the train began braking for its approach into Cloverdale. The guard, awakened by the change of sound and motion, stretched and yawned, then suddenly realized where he was and what he was supposed to be doing.
“What the hell? “ he shouted in alarm when he saw that Bobby Lee was sitting against the side of the car, holding the pistol. The would-be guard threw his arms up. “No, mister, don’t shoot! I’ve got a wife and kids! Don’t shoot!”
“Relax,” Bobby Lee said. “I’m not going to shoot you. I told you, I’m not one of outlaws. I want to see the sheriff. I plan to get this all straightened out.” He handed the pistol back to the guard. “I believe this belongs to you.”
Cloverdale was awakening on the new day when the train arrived. The stagecoach was waiting for any passengers who might need a connection to the nearby towns that weren’t served by the railroad. Freight wagons were already beginning their morning runs, stores were opening, and citizens were moving about. Word that the train had been robbed was quickly spread through the town so that soon, a rather substantial crowd had gathered around the depot to watch, sadly, as the messenger’s body was taken down.
“Who done it?” someone asked.
“Frank Dodd, who else?”
When Bobby Lee was taken from the train, tied and watched over by at least two armed men, a gasp of surprise passed through the crowd.
“Ain’t that Bobby Lee Cabot?”
“What’s he doin’ all tied up like that?”
“Someone said he was ridin’ with Dodd.”
“You don’t say.”
“I don’t believe it.”
